The Traitors Reward
by Desecre
Summary: A Traitor to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named flees to Ireland to seek sanctuary and peace, but Voldemort's iron hand and ever watchful eyes are searching for the opportunity to take back what is rightfully his.


            To all those concerned: Karkaroff, Snape, Voldemort's cronies, and all other Harry Potter cannon character belong to the all-powerful J.K. Rowling.  Evidence for my claim:  If the characters were indeed mine, then what in Merlin's blood am I doing in an ugly, linoleum floored 1 bedroom flat, going to college on a "six year plan"?  I am writing this work of fiction to strengthen my writing as an author, and I solemnly swear on the wholesomeness of chocolate-mint Girl Scout cookies that I am not benefiting monetarily from this story.      

The wind howled angrily with the force of a hurricane, threatening to tear apart old wooden picket fences and ancient apple trees, whose seeds had been sown when Rosary, the first completely Wizard village in Ireland, had been founded.  The rain poured down thicker than blood, choking the gutters and rolling down thick-glassed windowpanes, which glowed warmly with the flicker of candlelight.

Two mischievous leprechauns, wrapped in hooded cloaks of forest green, cackled gleefully despite the onslaught of rain. They stomped and splashed in knee-deep puddles and pranced down the lantern-lit cobble stone streets towards their nightly destination: the Smoky Dragon Inn and Pub.  From a short distance, the leprechauns could hear the faint welcoming sounds of drunken laughter, clinking glassware, and mandolin Celtic music.  Stifling their puckish snickers, the two pranksters quietly cracked open the wooden entrance to the pub and crept inside, slinking momentarily into the shadows.

The pub stank of pipe tobacco, creating a haze of smoke that clouded the Smoky Dragon Pub like a thick London fog.  Locals with flaming red hair and tweed caps huddled together at crude wooden benches and tables, swigging down mugs of Dragon Blood Ale and sharing 'personal,' exaggerated stories of their encounters with evil, magical monsters. 

"Once, durin' the deadliest hours of the night, Oi crossed paths with a horrific, wailin' banshee," began a thin, wiry haired Wizard while smoking his pipe.  "Oi struck up a conversation with er' and we decided to have a screechin' contest ta see who was loudest.  Ha!  Er' wail wus nottin'!  On the otha' and,' I let out a yell so loud that I deafened alf' the forest, includin' the banshee mind ya', and withered the leaves on the nearest oak tree."  The wizard let out a deep, throaty laugh.  "Needless to say, she never bothered me agin." 

"Humph!" scoffed a Wizard sitting across from him.  "I expected better from you O'Brien.  That's a ball of shite if I ever eard' one."

            "Oohhh," O'Brien said sarcastically.  "And ya' thinks that you can do better Collins?"              

            "Course I can," Collins replied, sipping his ale.  "And lets make it interesting while we're at it.  We'll take a group vote at the end of me tale.  If I win more votes, then you owe me another mug of Dragon Blood Ale, and the same to ya' if ya' win."

            O'Brien reached across the table and gave Collins a firm handshake.  "It's a bet!"

            Collins cleared his throat loudly and began his story.

            "Oi once entered a contest to wrestle a dragon—a Hungarian Horntail at that!  The lucky soul that could wrestle the dragon to the ground, then bind and extinguish its flames, without magic mind ya', would win 500 Galleons as a reward!  There was ten of us in all, and we all pulled numbers outta' gray tweed cap to see who would go first.  And Oi, being the lucky bastard that Oi was," Collins muttered to the snickering crowd, "picked the tenth spot.  Oi stood there all nervous like, watchin' all the other witches and wizards suit up, carrying swords, shields, and rope.  

            "Each witch and wizard strode out into the field, greeted by the screechin' and screamin' and cheerin' of the crowd.  Owever', once the match began, the shouts soon turned into gasps of terror and breath bated whispers.  The lucky contenders were carried back, moaning in pain, on magical, floatin' stretchers, bloodied up and clothes singed an' smokin.'  But not everyone was so lucky.  A couple of wizards were torn apart, limb from limb, and eaten by the ferocious dragon.

            "Finally it was me turn to face the terrifyin' beast.  Oi ran out of the tent, screamin' like a banshee, and charged at the dragon.  That dragon was as rough as a bear's arse, but Oi grabbed the savage demon by its bronze horns and swung it around me head, letting the beast fall with a sickenin' thud!  Then Oi tackled it to the ground, thwackin' it in the head with me thick-corded rope.  Once it was dazed, Oi took me rope and bound its front n' hind legs together.  Then Oi got a bucket of water and dumped it into the dumb monsters mouth.  Is' mouth was smokin' and hissin' like cold water against a hot fryin' pan!  The crowd let out an ear deafenin' cheer, and they ran down to meet me, like crashin' sea waves, and hoisted me onta their shoulders.  Oi was given a great big sack of Galleons and hailed as a hero!"  Collins winked at his slack jawed listeners.  "It's true mates, all true."

            "It's true enough alright," laughed an older, gray haired local who had been listening to Collins story.  "But ya' left something very important out Collins."

            "Oh really?  And what would that be old man," Collins asked.

            "Ya' fergot ta' mention that tha' Horntail ya' wrestled was only a fledgling, perhaps eight months old at most.  And lets not forget," the old man whispered dramatically, "that there were 9 other wizards before ya to weary im' down a bit."  

            The entire group erupted loudly into laughter.  Collins face reddened.

            "O' course, it's quite the tall tale, but it beat out O'Riley's did it not?" Collins asked.  The rest of the group shouted out their approval with another bout of laughter.

            "Fine," O'Riley said, standing up and bowing in jest.  "You win. Hey O' Fearghail!" O'Riley whistled sharply.  "O'Fearghail!  We need another round of Dragon Blood Ales over ere'."

            The entire group whooped loudly in agreement, earning a few glares from some old, stern hags.  

            "Alright, alright!" yelled Michael O'Fearghail, the gruff, heavy set, gray eyed Pub and Innkeeper, from the other side of the pub.  "Don't get yer alans in a twist!  I'll be right over."

            As O'Fearghail stomped off to a large tankard to fill up two mugs, a pair of leprechauns crept quietly out of the shadows, ducking, bobbing and weaving so that their presence would go unnoticed by the wizards and hags around them.  As quiet as falling snowflakes, they crawled beneath a crude wooden bench, right next to Collins' unexpecting feet.  Both leprechauns shook convulsively with stifled laughter, their eyes twinkling with unashamed mischief.  

            A moment later, O'Fearghail walked over to the table, thudding one mug of ale each in front of Collins and O' Riley.  Collins smiled approvingly and lifted up his mug, O'Riley doing the same.  As they clinked their mugs together, O'Riley laughed and said aloud: "To the greatest bastards this town has ever seen!"

            Suddenly, the mugs shattered, sending sharp fragments of glass flying in every direction.  Collins yelped in shock as he stumbled over his bench, trying to avoid the air borne shards of glass.  He fell harshly on his rear end with a thud and became quickly aware of the mad cackling coming from the two, small, red haired culprits.

            "Why you…" Collins growled as he sprang to his feet, drawing his wand.  "DAMNED LITTLE PEOPLE!  I'll catch ya' and use ya' for mouse trap bait, I will!"

            The leprechauns hopped onto the bench between two startled wizards, grinning like Cheshire cats and making very rude gestures indeed at Collins.  Collins face turned a darker shade of red and he yelled angrily, lunging for the leprechauns in a half drunken stupor.  The devilish smiles were instantly wiped of the leprechauns faces, and they sprang high in the air to avoid Collins enraged fists, landing neatly behind their attackers back and leaving Collins jaw to connect squarely with the wooden bench.

            Collin yelped in pain and whipped around to see the two leprechauns scampering away towards the wooden door exit.

            "Oh no ya' don't!" Collin hissed, closing in on them and peppering them with an array of hexes.  

            Without looking back, the leprechauns began to levitate glass mugs, hurling them with quick speed at not only Collin, but also other random Wizards and Witches in the room.  The room became a massive riot, with people screaming in fear--jumping out of their chairs and crawling under tables to try to dodge the massive glassware onslaught.  Collins ducked past two whizzing glass mugs, missing his head by inches, and shattered the third with a well-placed charm, and continued to doggedly pursue the tricksters.

            The leprechauns made it out the door, scuttled underneath the cloak of a tall, thin stranger, ran through his legs out to the other side of the cloak, and dashed back out into the rainy weather and the slippery cobblestone streets.  Collins, unable to stop himself, ran headlong into black hooded stranger, bowling him over.  

            "Oh hell!  I'm so sorry," Collins, said, red with embarrassment, hoisting the stranger to his feet.  "Oi wasn't watchin' where Oi wuz goin'…Oi was after those two lousy renegades an'…"

            "No matter," the black hooded stranger interrupted, looking slightly annoyed.  "Just let me pass and all will be forgiven."

            "Oh…right o' course," Collins stammered.

            The black-cloaked stranger stepped inside the pub and threw down his hood.  He ran his hands through his short, silver-white hair and smoothed his goatee, which finished in a small, delicate curl.  Observing the pub with his shrewd, gray eyes, he called out: "Who is the master of this place?"

            O'Fearghail looked up from his swept pile of shattered glass and angrily stomped towards the silver haired stranger.

            "I am.  What do you want?"

            "I want refuge from this storm.  I plan on staying here for a week," the stranger answered coldly.

            "And what name should I reserve a room under?" O'Fearghail asked.

            "My name is of no concern," the stranger said, pulling out a satchel of gold coins and dropping them on a wooden table with a clank.  "All you need to know is that I can pay, and that I can pay well."

            "Well then," O'Fearghail said, clearing his throat and palming the leather satchel, "I suppose we can fix somethin' up.  My daughter will lead you to your room."

            Karkaroff howled loudly in pain, clenching and pounding the moss-covered gravestone in complete agony.  Slowly, the pain ebbed away, leaving Karkaroff a sobbing, shivering, pitiful mess.  He whimpered softly, begging his torturers to stop.

            "Please.  Oh please," Karkaroff lifted his tear stained face to look directly at his torturers. Dolohov?  Rosier?  Travers?  Mulciber?  Mercy…oh have mercy on me."

            Rosier scoffed, his face white and bloodless with deep, dark circles around his empty eyes.

            "Mercy?" Rosier hissed, spitting on Karkaroff in disgust.  "You want _us to __give you mercy?!  After what __you did?"_

            "Traitor," Mulciber spat venomously, the skin rotting off his very bones.  "You deserve death… worse than death.  You should rot in hell!"

            Karkaroff rose painstakingly, using the gravestone to support his fragile, bruised body.  The four torturers formed a tight half circle around Karkaroff, their wands poised at Karkaroff's heart.

            Karkaroff's gray eyes grew wide with fear.  He threw his hands into the air and cried out "I did what I had to do to survive!  Would any of you have done any different?"

            "Why yes…we would," Travers said softly with a deadly edge in his voice, his nose and ears oozing with blood, his skin as pale as a ghost.  "We would have rather rotted in Azkaban then betrayed Voldemort, his cause, and his people!"

            "We are all connected by this," Dolohov spoke, raising the sleeve of his robe to show the blackened dark mark of Voldemort.  "We are united as brothers of The Dark Cause.  You have broken your brothers trust…and now you must pay!"

            Dolohov waved his wand and cried "Crucio!"  Karkaroff doubled up in pain, and gave a high, throaty shriek, almost biting off his tongue.  Karkaroff panted on all fours, slowly trying to crawl away in pain from his former brethren.

            Suddenly, Karkaroff was grabbed by the throat and hoisted into the air.  Karkaroff choked and made a soft gurgling sound, grabbing at his enemies wrists to pry himself free.  He looked straight up into his torturers eyes and gasped hoarsely in terror.

            It was Rookwood.

            Rookwood dropped Karkaroff in one pitiful heap and smiled cruelly, his eyes alight with anger and fire.

            "Did you miss me?" Rookwood asked coldly.

            "Rookwood!  I…. I…"

            "I thought as much.  Didn't expect to see me here did you?  Well I'm back, and I'm here to repay you for those fateful words you spoke 14 years ago!"

            Terrified, Karkaroff tried to flee, his body pounding with adrenalin.  However, Rookwood drew his wand and muttered an ancient curse, locking Karkaroff's joints in place.  Karkaroff fell face first into the hard earth, feeling his nose crack and the blood running down his face.  Karkaroff tried to will his bones to move, his joints to bend, but he was instead being dragged by a magic invisible hand towards his torturers and a newly dug grave plot.  

            "Don't worry Karkaroff," Rookwood spoke with a sickly smile.  "Soon all your pain and suffering will be over."

            Rookwood unsheathed a dagger and strode over to Karkaroff, a wicked grin lighting his face.  He forcefully pried open Karkaroff's mouth and cut off a good deal of his tongue.  Karkaroff writhed, screaming and gurgling in pain, spitting out mouthfuls of the now rushing blood. 

            Finally, the five captives hoisted Karkaroff's body and threw it down the freshly dug grave plot.  Karkaroff felt his stiffened body fall into the earthy pit.  He looked in anguish towards his captives, begging with his bewildered gray eyes one last chance.

            "It is too late for you," Rookwood spat in anger.  "This is where it ends.  Goodbye Karkaroff."

            Muttering in a dark, forgotten language, the five torturers conjured a ceaseless storm of dirt to bury Karkaroff's rigid body.  Karkaroff tried to scream in fear but his nostrils and mouth were filled with dirt.  Karkaroff felt himself being swept off, his breathing becoming more ragged and laborious as he struggled to breath for a fresh bit of air, then he was becoming colder, and colder, and colder….

            Karkaroff awoke screaming, his forehead and silver hair cold with sweat.  Breathing heavily, Karkaroff grabbed his wand off the reading nightstand and muttered "lumos."  As he became accustomed to the faint light, Karkaroff's eyes darted around the room, checking each crevice to make sure that he was indeed alone and safe.  He jumped out of bed and rummaged through the pockets of his robes, producing a vial of dark blue liquid.

After downing the entire vial, Karkaroff climbed back into bed, taking a deep sigh and chuckling nervously.  He was about to drift back into a dreamless sleep when a black-gloved hand clasped itself firmly around Karkaroff's mouth.  Karkaroff's eyes snapped open, his screams muffled by the hand that held him.  Karkaroff felt the wooden point of a wand jab against his neck.

"Don't move," Lucius Malfoy hissed, digging his wand deeper into Karkaroff's neck.  "Don't scream.  You alarm one person and I swear I'll end it here.  Now then…old friend," Malfoy smirked, enjoying Karkaroff's bewildered expression.  "I'm here on the request of an old familiar…perhaps you've heard of him?  That's right Karkaroff, I'm on specific orders to have you brought back to the Dark Lord…. preferably alive than dead, it doesn't really matter.  But Lord Voldemort does has great plans in store for you…"

Well that is all for now.  I hope you enjoyed this installment.  It's my first stab at fan fiction!  If you enjoyed this story please review.  I've really enjoyed writing this fiction, but I'd like to know if it would be worth it for me to continue.  Constructive criticism is always welcome.  

See you on the other side,

~Desecre DeMorte~            


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